By the way, trends gag me; malls give me hives; and I am not interested in labels … not for anything.
I have my own sense of style … it just happens to be a weird style that few people appreciate.
My clothing is best described as a vintage mix of disheveled gypsy with bad hair and skirts that drag the floor, mixed with my longtime addiction to large buttons, odd colors, gauze and soft cottons.
I tell you this stuff so you will understand why I have only one black, knee-length skirt to my name.
A few days ago I designated that black skirt as my conservative job interview costume, complete with a tame, ladylike white blouse and toe-squishing black shoes.
Of course there was a problem with the scenario.
And the problem was my big hind end.
While one of my girlfriends laughed and yanked at the zipper, I held my breath until my life started to flash before my eyes.
“After you wear it for a while I’ll just bet the material stretches,” she said.
Well. No. That wasn’t true.
When I tried to crawl into the driver’s seat the skirt became an even bigger problem.
I had no choice but to hike that thing up to my chin so I could get behind the wheel.
When I arrived 20 minutes early for the interview I did what most women my age do, I made a beeline for the bathroom.
That decision only magnified how the skirt was ruining my life.
During a stressful moment I discovered that I couldn’t pull the skirt up. Pulling it down was not a smart move, either.
But when the bladder speaks, I listen.
So I wiggled and sweated – first to pee – and then to get the skirt back into place.
For some reason every time I worked like a dog to pull the skirt up, my panties rolled downward like a window blind.
I tried to grab hold of the runaway underwear. But the skirt was so crazy tight that I could not reach it. To make matters worse I barely freed my hand from the squeezing waistline.
Once I managed to get the skirt up, the panties up and the foot-killing shoes back on, I nearly bunny hopped into the interview. The skirt had a death grip around my knees!
Once I was back in my car that skirt zipper got lots of verbal abuse. Several times I wished that I carried a knife so I could just cut the black hell right off my thick thighs.
I even considered exiting the car to borrow scissors from the nice receptionist.
But out of sheer necessity I had already shown my granny panties to some goofy guy in the vehicle parked across from mine. He thought we were dating.
Somehow I got that zipper undone and discovered a 3-inch ditch embedded in my fat, from the anaconda waistline of the skirt.
It might be a perfect new place to store gravy.
In the mean time I’ll be looking forward to an adult beverage and a nap.